Traces
by margie311
Summary: Post 3.02 - Gail/Nick - Past and present converge in this oneshot.


**A/N: So, apparently, I'm doing this thing where I post oneshots. I'm STILL working on the Witness, I promise. I've been trying to get Gail/Nick out of my head for the last two weeks, have chucked a couple of versions of this...one I was actually pretty fond of, but thought I'd throw this out there. I would have had it out last night, but...alas - the dispair of working nights...**

**Thanks to JadeSelena, for her impromptu brainstorming last week, and much discussion of Nick/Gail's probable history. In my mind...there's so so much still to go over... But the basic idea (if you haven't heard) is that Gail and Nick basically grew up together...close families, etc. Check out her fic for the full rundown ;)**

**Also, thanks to rookiebluefan89 and SoWritten for reading/editing/supporting, and to SMchick for the title.**

**Um, also, I'm giving this present tense thing a shot again. We'll see how it goes.**

* * *

So.

This is new. Except not.

Nick Collins all pressed up against her like he hadn't been gone all that time; like he'd been pressed up against her every day for the last five years.

Somewhere in between the second and third shots of tequila, they'd pretty much settled back into that far too familiar place; her at his hip, listening to the sound of his voice, feeling it echo through her like it used to. Watching as he smiles at her, and then glances away the instant she catches him. Just like before.

Before.

Years ago, a couple of cops' kids growing up together, both 75% sure they wouldn't be following in their parent's footsteps; both 25% afraid that it was inevitable.

They used to sit out on his balcony at his first apartment, wrought iron spindles spiraling up to the railing; watching the neighborhood thrive and pulse below as they shared cigarettes. Just one or two; just enough for Gail to feel like she wasn't in any danger of becoming her mother. They'd drink and laugh and touch and eventually, they'd head back in, crawling through the window, and she'd lay back on his bed and watch as he yanked off her jeans. Her shirt was next, worked up with his palms flat against her ribs, dragging over the sides of her breasts until she was arching against him, practically begging him to just pull the damn thing off already.

He was right about one thing though, back in the equipment room. He was thinner back then, long limbs lean with muscle; nowhere near the solid bulk she's running her hands over at the moment. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide as she presses her own up against it. At the contact, he leans closer, his hand low on her hip, pulling her into him.

Gail sighs a little and Nick makes a noise. It's almost a laugh, but not quite. More like an audible smile and she grins back. His hands are on her face, his mouth is on hers and everything is good. Everything is great, in fact. Just the way it used to be.

Except not.

Her fingers dig into the meat of his right shoulder and she freezes for a second as the memory hits her again. Somewhere deep under the tequila, the image of him in the locker room creeps up. Nick bare to the waist, small slow movements as he turns, after she notices the scar.

After he left all those years ago, Gail did her God's honest best to just forget him, to just put him completely out of her mind. But it wasn't like the people around her could do the same. Their friends were still her friends, her parents and his parents were close and colleagues. It wasn't uncommon for Gail's mom to bring it up at Sunday dinner, completely out of fucking nowhere, like she had absolutely no clue how painful it was to listen to; even though she couldn't possibly miss it.

"_So, Jonathan tells me that Nick is starting his second tour in a couple of weeks…"_

It also wasn't uncommon for Gail to get up and leave everyone sitting there, staring after her.

Gail pauses for a moment. Nick's lips are traveling up the curve of her jaw as she wonders exactly when and where he got that scar.

"What happened to you?"

Nick freezes. Absolutely stone-still, deer-in-the-headlights, not moving a muscle.

"What?" His voice is whisper-quiet in her ear.

She didn't mean to ask. It's more something she meant to think in her head, but it's running around and around inside of her, and she hears herself ask again.

"What happened to you? In Afghanistan?"

After a pause, he exhales loudly, then pulls back; actually retreats a full step. The old Nick, the one she'd spent so much time with way back when, the one that she'd been rediscovering just a moment ago is completely gone now. He's wearing an expression that's halfway between mistrust and total vulnerability and out of some long-buried instinct, Gail takes a step forward, hand raised towards him.

But Nick shuffles back another step and ducks his head, shaking it slightly.

"Why do you want to know?"

She stares at him curiously, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.

"Why wouldn't I want to know?"

He lifts his head and stars back at her, brown eyes going soft for just a split second. And then he shuts down; face going blank as a fresh sheet of paper. He reaches out and gets his hand around the strap to her duffel and then he stands again, shoulders and spine stiff as he turns and strides back towards the parking lot.

"Wait," Gail calls, scrambling after him, paying no attention to the sand kicking up into her shoes.

He doesn't though. He's walking quick, faster than she thought he could and by the time she draws even with him, they're almost there. She keeps her eyes on him as they move, and she can tell by the way he's clenching his jaw, by the muscle flexing in his cheek that he's not happy. Not amused in the slightest.

"Why can't you just tell me?" she asks, smiling even though she's suddenly 100% sure there's nothing funny about any of this.

He stops at her car, tosses the duffel into the backseat and then shuts the door firmly.

"Nick…" Her smile slowly morphs into a frown and as he stands there, palms still flat against the door, she reaches up, smooths her hand down the middle of his back, like she used to do whenever he'd get upset. Before.

Strangely, it still works. Gail can feel him relax under her hand, a palpable release of tension in the muscle as he tips his head back a little. She says his name again, and this time, he turns and stares down at her, leaning back against her car, legs slanted out in front of him.

"You never used to shut me out like this," she says quietly, barely even noticing she's moving closer to him until she's got one foot between his, and her knee brushes against his jeans.

He shrugs, eyes focusing on something behind her. "Yeah, well, you haven't done anything but shut me out the entire time I've been here." There's an obvious bite to his tone, a bitterness that rings hollow in the air between them. Then he closes his eyes briefly and gives his head a shake.

Gail tips her head down, gets her fingers into the soft striped fabric of his shirt. She tugs on it a little, then again, waiting for him to bring his eyes back to hers. When he does, she smiles again, trying to bring him back; the same guy she knew all those years ago.

But far too late, she realizes that he's gone.

The guy who's here now looks the same, talks the same. God, he even moves the same; getting his hands up under her hair, cupping the back of her neck a little roughly as he straightens and pulls her to him. And it's strange, because Gail's gearing up for a fight, getting ready to drag out every dirty trick in the book, but then he's kissing her again.

And it's not the kissing he was doing just minutes before; confident with years of practice, knowing how she liked it, how she likes him. No, this time, it's not slow, it's not careful, it's not at all like old times.

She's flush up against him, hands clutching at his shirt at his waist, as he practically folds himself around her. One of his hands slides down her back to her butt and he holds her hard against him. Like he's trying to distract her, or himself. Or maybe trying to just get lost entirely in the feeling of her body on his.

Gail can relate. She's pretty much been lost since the second she saw him in the parking lot his first day at 15. Not that she'd ever admit it in a million years.

He spins them slowly around, gets her back up against the side of the car and wedges a knee between hers. At the first press of his thigh up against her, Gail's eyes snap open. Her hands fist in his shirt and she gives him a little push. He doesn't fight her, just steps back, and Gail feels a swirl of air move between them, cooling her skin.

After sucking in a deep breath, she looks at Nick, and Nick… He's got this look like he's trying to decide if he should apologize or just turn around, get on his bike and get the hell out of there. He settles for the former. She watches as he takes a breath and then screws up the nerve.

"Look, Gail, I'm s-"

"Don't," she snaps. "Don't be sorry." His eyebrows lift in surprise and she realizes she's cold all of a sudden. She misses him all hot and solid against her. "Nick…"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to talk about it," he says simply, shrugging as he stuffs his hands into his pockets.

She narrows her eyes. "With anyone or just with me?"

Nick takes a deep breath and turns his head back to the beach. "It's just something I don't think about." Which is an all-out lie. He's still completely transparent, at least to someone who knows him. And Gail has known him well.

She feels the acid start to leech out of her as she stares at him, keeping her eyes on him, watching as he curls his shoulders a bit against the wind. She moves towards him slowly. Nick waits until she's right in front of him before he looks at her. Waits until she's got her hands on him again, around his waist, palms flat against his back, body close and warming the length of him. Then he nods, face pressed into her hair; gets his nose into that warm patch of skin behind her ear, and breathes.

And Gail knows he's avoiding it.

He was never much good at it; skirting an issue, trying to pretend like it didn't exist, like everything was normal. Way back before all the animosity, and the hurt feelings, before the engagement and the long nights stretched out next to each other, he used to pretend it didn't matter. That _she_ didn't matter; that he didn't _care_. Her just fifteen, barely old enough to comprehend the connection between them, half in love with him even then. Two kisses behind the oak tree at her uncle's cottage and she'd solved that dilemma.

And so she lets him avoid it for the moment. Lets him fill his hands with hair, lets his breath blow hot against her collarbones, lets him catch her mouth with his. Knowing the whole time that he'll come to her with it eventually.

And eventually will come soon enough.


End file.
